High life
Besotted again
Taki
hat was it that Papa called Paris in his paean to the city? Something about a moveable feast, I believe, and about being a mistress that never grows old. She sure doesn't. In the 21 years that I've been writ- ing in The Spectator I must have scribbled at least 40 columns about the City of Light, and have never failed to use the cliché about how besotted I am about the place.
This week was no different. Fresh from having done close to 100 miles of hiking in one week with Paul Johnson in the Swiss Alps — we lost Lady Carla after three days to the lure of Henry Kissinger's Connecti- cut Alps — the mother of my children and I drove to where good Americans go when they die. Once upon a time, with few cars on the road, the trip took a good eight hours driving fast and non-stop. We made it in six, stopping for a leisurely lunch, and 'The emptiness follows you round the room.' arriving fresh after the air-conditioned wonders and soft suspension of a brand new Jeep Cherokee. And the beautiful autoroute.
Soft Parisian summer evenings evoke great nostalgia, and last Sunday night was no exception. As dusk descended we walked to the Pont de l'Alma and a deli- cious dinner outdoors at Chez Francis. The only bad note was a bunch of American youngsters wearing baseball caps, enor- mous trainers and below the knee shorts. They were looking for the tunnel. I remem- ber the time when Americans came to Paris for 'la douceur de vivre'; now they come for the Pont de l'Alma tunnel.
Yet the city, as always, prevails. Who cares about the barbarians when the place is full of monuments to politically incorrect soldiers and poets? Even the few buildings that are covered in grime are beautiful, old and stately. The city's parks and plazas have never looked better, thanks to the earlier football theatrics. Ah yes, I almost forgot, it was also collection time, as in Valentino, Oscar de la Renta, and some others whose names do not deserve to be mentioned in the elegant pages of The Spectator..
Although my knowledge of fashion is on a par with Bill Clinton's veracity, I do know what I like. In the past there were three: Chanel, Hubert de Givenchy and Balencia- ga. Now there are four: Valentino, Caroli- na Herrera, Bill Blass and Oscar de la Renta. The rest should all be arrested, have large pieces of cement attached to their feet, and thrown into the deepest part of the Seine for crimes against women. It is not that they make dresses that are unsellable and unwearable, it is because of their total lack of taste and talent, their anti-fashion. Modern dress designers, espe- cially the Brits, are the crack-heads, the gangsta rappers of what passes for fashion nowadays. It is La Cage aux Folles gone mad and meaningless.
The reason for my trip was Valentino's summer party following his collection. The invite read 'Domaine de Wideville, Davron'. I must admit it was the under- statement of the century. The Château de Wideville is a Louis XIII jewel, probably the loveliest château in France. It is 20 minutes west of the Pont de St Cloud, driv- ing fast. As we turned into the drive we began to laugh. Neither the mother of my children, nor I — and between us we have seen a pile or two — had ever seen any- thing as beautiful. There was a double Ode leading to a most beautifully proportioned château, and beyond, four rows of 8ft-high topiary interspersed with parterres of fleurs-de-lys leading to the loveliest of nymphaeums. In the soft light the scene beggared description.
This is no exercise in narcissism on the part of Valentino. It is perfection itself. A simple marble plaque above a door read: 'S.M. Le Roi Louis Est Venu Coucher a Wideville le 23 Janvier, 1643'. We dined in the garden facing the nymphaeum. I know I've said this time and again, but this really was one of the best parties I've been to in years. The setting and the good friends made it so. I sat with Janet de Botton, who gave me a lesson in French architecture. Then I joined Robert Hanson, Tim Jef- feries and Arkie Busson. Joining those three means one gets to meet lots of beauti- ful women, Sophie Anderton, Elle McPher- son and so on. Then Gilda appeared. Yes, a girl who looked just like Rita Hayworth did in the film, and who began to dance with me in a manner that would have shocked a Foreign Legionnaire. She turned out to be Charlene de Ganay, a girl I once was madly in love with. Then came Mafalda of Hesse, whose breasts are superior to those of Venus de Milo. The beautiful girls, the loveliness of the setting, the generosity of Valentino, it was all too much. Anything after this is bound to be a downer.
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